


flow

by rain_at_dawn



Category: SHINee
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn(ish), brief appearances by 2minkey, implied previous relationships, non-celebrity AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26060635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_at_dawn/pseuds/rain_at_dawn
Summary: Distance is just a verb.
Relationships: Kim Jonghyun/Lee Jinki | Onew
Comments: 18
Kudos: 18
Collections: Summer of SHINee Round 2





	flow

**Author's Note:**

> I owe a huge amount of thanks to my beta, Ariel, for her editing and insight into this piece.
> 
> As always, thank you to the Summer of SHINee mods for their hard work organizing this fest and to the prompter who provided the inspiration for this fic. I hope you like it!

On an evening like this, he worries that he’s not being true to himself, that he’s hardly done enough, that he’s running out of time that he’s never bothered to set aside; a lot of things, but he doesn’t mention any of this to the busker. He’s come out here, on the bridge near the clock-tower, in hopes of finding some reprieve from himself in the darkening ripples of the river-water ; a last ditch effort instead of succumbing to the urge to set off some tiny indoor fireworks within the tiny hostel he resided in.

Again, he’d run into the busker and tossed him a five quid note instead of a few coins. The busker, like him, was a foreigner abroad, separated from the rest of their surroundings by an accent and the few noteworthy tells of perpetually repressed customs. The cardboard sign perched against the busker’s guitar-case spells his full name out in the English alphabet, then repeats it in hangul with the surname written before the given name; underneath both of these is a contact number, in case any passersby should want to book him for weddings ‘and others’.

That last part could entail any number of things that he supposes he should know, as would anyone else who’d take a chance glance at the sign. The busker’s voice is a melodious one; one that drifts high and low to match the accompanying temperament of the song, but never so far beyond as to lose control of the mood; it’s a testament to the man’s ability that he’s heard over the distant cathedral bells, which were known to penetrate even the thickest of skulls, local or tourist. 

There’s nothing else to get through to him but the silence ; he could let his mind wander back to the photos backed up on his hard-drive, the ones taken of the maypoles in one of the quaint little villages he’d visited during the Midsummer festivities. But thinking about those did not bring up the images of the laughing, sun-splashed girls in white cotton dresses and straw hats that had waltzed through the mild heat. Instead, it was the feverish undercurrent of dissatisfaction that had frothed over from the hole he carried inside him, even with as much as he kept it fed with distractions and trivialities.

The hole is deep and dark, and on some days, he feels like it contains him more than the other way around. On nights like these, it runs deeper and darker still, enough for him to slip it over his face with the smile he’d been known for, from where he’d come from; the busker doesn’t realize this yet and he doesn’t know how to get this across, or why he wants to.

Even the wholesome crackle and bang of far away fireworks can’t tear him away from the dark and the silence and the music that plays on despite everything. He won’t lie to himself – not out loud anyway – that it’s not the comfort he’s been looking for, but the companionship.

But if there was even a glimpse of light at the end of the tunnel, he’d reach for it just to watch it brush against his fingertips.

“You play well,” he tells the busker in Korean and it somewhat has the effect he’s looking for; that of a gaze tilting to meet his, just shy of curious, and a mouth that twitches in recognition of its native tongue. The busker settles for a nod before returning to the notes he coaxes from his guitar-pick and strings, each sound a touch sharper in the balmy air.

But maybe he’s imagining that things have suddenly changed. They’re both still strangers in a strange land and even if that were enough to bridge the gap between them, it’s careless to assume that that little in common was a binding force.

Still: “Do you play anything from where we’re from?”

From where they were from; at least it sounds better than the alternative, ‘back home’. While there were no illusions of invincibility this far from Seoul, he doesn’t want to reopen any old wounds. If the busker shakes his head instead and goes on to play ‘Wonderwall’ instead of Kim Kwangseok or Nell, there’ll at least be no bad blood to spill over.

But the busker must be used to strange requests; there’s an immediate shift in tune and then, three seconds in, the voice croons low and sweet over the first verse of a song he doesn’t recognize in the language they share. It’s both familiar and strange, he can’t place the lyrics at all; maybe it’s a new song, one that’s at least half his age.

After the song ends, the busker informs him, “It’s my own.”

“It’s good. What’s it called?”

“It’s a demo.” The busker brushes him off, though there is definitely an upward turn in the corners of his mouth. “I’m glad you liked it.”

He hasn’t missed formal speech in the months he’s been away from Korea; hearing it now brings up the distance. The five steps that separate him from the busker’s personal space already feel like miles. He knows he won’t be able to rest his mind in peace unless he does something to close it.

“I’m Lee Jinki,” He says instead. “From Gwangmyeong.”

The busker seems to consider this lightly before speaking: “My family’s from Seoul.”

“Ah.”

To Jinki’s credit, that little sound he makes feels hardly discordant. A few minutes ago, the busker had begun his song with a long, sweet ‘Oh’. As to how time, and their conversation, would move on from now was not so much a question mark than an ellipsis.

He watches the busker’s eyes flicker to the cardboard sign, probably wondering if it was wasted effort to initiate the obvious. But it’s a name Jinki would like to hear aloud, spoken in it’s owner’s tongue.

Eventually, the busker picks up the sign and settles it comfortably in his arms as he says, “My name’s – ”

* * *

“Kim Jonghyun,” He tries, frowns, then tries it the way it’s supposed to go in these parts. “Jonghyun Kim.”

It’s telling of how at odds he’s at with himself, with something as simple as the placement of his name. The previous sign had grown soggy from the last late spring drizzle, the felt pen-inked characters running in ashy streaks down the cardboard. Weird that something as minor as the placement of a family and given name would cause this much disturbance in his mental space when he had to create a replacement sign.

_It’s just a little thing_ , he tells himself, then nearly laughs at the irony he instantly grasps; he runs on little things, so many little things that anyone else would dub ‘confetti’. Was everybody else crazy or was it just him?

_Making a new sign will take ten minutes_ , he tries instead, but that doesn’t quell anything either. He doesn’t like fixed things, especially timings; he’s had to adhere to enough strict schedules during his regular working hours and already can’t stand the thought that any of it should seep into his busking. If there’s anything he places on a pedestal, it’s freedom, however rare and fleeting it might be.

_But it needs to be done_ is the final ultimatum he gives himself. It’s enough to compel him to pick up the new blank piece of cardboard in his right hand and a freshly uncapped marker in his left. As with the previous sign, the English has to come out on top; Jonghyun takes care with each letter, making sure to accentuate them in capitals.

And then the hangul: 김종현. It takes less time than the romanization, but feels no less out of place than the other. Names were sung differently in ink than they were rolled over someone’s tongue. Like ‘Jonghyun’ in Jinki’s voice, even if carried through the air like a passive afterthought; ‘Jonghyun’ attached to nothing but the gap in-between the question that’s been asked and the answer that never comes.

_“Do you…”_ Jinki had begun, then hesitated until it was too late to pull through, and he had nothing to add but Jonghyun’s name.

Jonghyun knows he’s being somewhat serious, not by the tone of his voice but by the tremor around it, holding it steady. It comes off cold, though Jinki has never been anything but.

The silence had flooded his humble little living-room where Jinki sat perched on the edge of Jonghyun’s worn-through sofa bed; Jonghyun had wondered if he should reach out, if just to pet Jinki on the shoulder and tell him he knew.

He knew that Jinki would be leaving for good shortly. He knew that Jinki loved him. Just like that.

And he knew that Jinki wanted to know if Jonghyun loved him too.

Not as simple.

He had still left things unsaid, even in the days after he’d hugged Jinki goodbye at the airport; even during the nights when he couldn’t sleep and Jinki was just a call or text away. It would have been morning in Seoul, long after midnight in London.

Even now, as he keeps himself awake and occupied with fixing up his new sign; the ‘o’ in Jonghyun reminds him of how it sounds when Jinki says it, how it seems to halo his name as if it were something sacred. It’s either that or the moon, round and bared above him, the only thing that keeps him company now. 

Before Jonghyun realizes it, the sign is finished and there’s little else to distract him. Perhaps it would be good to get some writing done, for the novel that’s always haunted him; he can put his thoughts into talk, even if it’s idle chatter that streams from his protagonists’ mouths. There are no names yet, just ‘Him’ and ‘Her. Perhaps he would add a third character.

This third person is a blank, but they always begin this way. Until he draws it out, there’s no soul and no fire, just a ghost in his head and one soon to wander the lined sheets of his notebook.

His phone-screen lights up with a notification, silent as always, but the blinking tempts him and eventually draws his index finger to swipe:

_‘thought you might like these’_

After the message comes two photos, both of which were taken down by the river on a day that felt like eons ago. It had been a sunny – for England – time of afternoon and as he recalls. There had been the remains of a levee that had been built around the time of the Romans. Or Normans. Or something from a history which Jonghyun can’t claim as his own as he’d walked over the soft dry earth. Behind him had followed Jinki and his camera.

He remembers Jinki asking, _“What would have happened if the levee had… I don’t know… broken in those times?”_ and Jonghyun had known it was just conversation for the sake of conversing. Jinki liked listening to him; this was how he would always remind him.

_“Well, aren’t we lucky we live in the present?”_ He’d countered, taking his time with each step forward, aimless. _“I’m not a strong swimmer.”_

_“But I am.”_

There’d been a hint at cheekiness there, well in advance of a joke which may have been better askance from where they’d lie in a bed. Or even a hammock. But it had still been early enough that the post-lunch drowsiness hadn’t set him, leaving Jonghyun to keep his smile to himself and chuckle at the prospect of teasing Jinki –

* * *

– about the frogs in the garden, so much so that it becomes an inside joke between the two of them; usually drenched in the morning sunlight on an odd weekday after he stays the night at Jonghyun’s. Back home, a 200 km drive south of Seoul where his grandparents lived, it had been cicadas that Jinki was accustomed to waking up to.

The frogs had begun their croaking early, just before the break of dawn. As he’d listened, Jinki slid his arm over Jonghyun’s bare stomach and let his eyes grow accustomed to the rise and fall of his chest. With each breath Jonghyun took in his sleep, he did not snore, so much as hum; which made sense, as much of the night before had been full of his voice, ranging from the light tenor of his chatter to the lower baritone of the laughter contained behind his hand, then stretched taut around Jinki’s name as he’d climaxed in his arms. 

The nearest bus-stop is a stone’s throw from the low block of flats in which Jonghyun lives in London. It’ll take only two minutes tops for Jinki to walk there, then less than five until the 8.10 bus pulled up. He’d not forgotten his bus card this time, so there was no excuse to linger.

Except breakfast, of course. Freshly prepared by Jonghyun, served hot and steaming in the pair of boxers Jinki had tugged off of him the night before. Jinki looks at the clock hung on the wall, right above the fridge, and makes a decision.

He takes a bite out of the omelet presented to him, right through the corner where the swirl of ketchup begins. There’s little bits of onions and tomatoes speckling the sunny yellow yolk, as well as the green stuff – ‘chives’, he suddenly remembers, just like how his mother used to prepare. At home.

“There’s pepper on the side,” Jonghyun reminds him, even as he tears open a packet and sprinkles it over Jinki’s plate. Jonghyun has a habit of accumulating things, usually the odd bits and bobs that came about from daily living; tickets stubs from concerts or the theatre, unused packets of condiments from take-out, little habits like the sudden drift into either English or Korean when he found himself at a loss for words in one language or the other.

In a nutshell, it would be easy to classify his friend – of sorts – as a ‘collector’ and yet Jinki knows that it wouldn’t be fair. Maybe a ‘work-in-progress’, but then again, so were most people and Jonghyun doesn’t feel like ‘most people’.

“You’re quiet.” Jonghyun observes over the rim of his coffee mug. “You usually are when you’re eating, but this seems different.”

If Jinki feels like being completely honest, he’d admit that today feels like being born all over again, with the world so strange and wide open before his eyes, even if it only went as far as Jonghyun’s kitchen. Instead, he smiles and remarks that it feels like heaven beside Jonghyun, fully aware of how cheesy it sounds and expecting to hear a scoff in return.

But today has decided to take on a different shape because Jonghyun’s expression shifts, not as it would in a cringe, but something gentler, more vulnerable to Jinki’s eyes. It’s not something that’s easy to come across in the mornings, which was why probably so much of their fucking took place under cover of night.

Jinki wants to add that he really means everything he’s ever said in the heat of those moments. He doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “I’d like to photograph you someday.”

“You already have.”

“Not like this.”

“Like…” Jonghyun’s gaze averts from his, to the sun-freckled floor where the skinniest bits of moldy sludge form between the tiles in the corner. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”

Jinki wishes he did and maybe Jonghyun will. Someday.

“Do you want to have a look at the ones from the factory? I have them on a flash drive.”

Jonghyun nods, far too quickly and eagerly for Jinki to mistake for anything other than a desire not to broach the nature of their relationship further.

His backpack containing his laptop is still on Jonghyun’s armchair, right where he’d tossed it the night before. After unzipping it, Jinki vaguely notes that no damage was incurred before setting the laptop down on the coffee-table. It takes a few seconds to power on and insert the flash drive into its port on the side, then a click to bring up the images. 

Aside from the monochrome filter, there’s little else that Jinki has edited. The factory was an old deserted building on the outskirts of the city, not far off from the river. All the shots of Jonghyun were candid ones, in most of which he stayed away from the light filtering through the rickety shutters and bare windows.

However, for as much as Jonghyun avoids the sun, there’s no denying that he draws in the light in some form or the other. Even as he backs away into the shadows, a single beam of light is slashed across his face, a bisection from the right cheekbone to the left corner of the chin. It’s a type of structuring that Jinki knows he would’ve never been able to achieve on his own, or even be inspired to try in the first place.

Jonghyun has his eyes fixed on this particular shot, frowning.

“I’m glad that it’s over now. You know, I don’t normally like cameras.”

And yet that day had ended just like the one yesterday, with both of them landing on Jonghyun’s couch as the sun set and a hand pressed in all nonchalance over Jinki’s knee, before it slid up his thigh, before Jinki was compelled to answer with his own hand cupping Jonghyun’s face, his thumb brushing over the exact spot the light had.

At this point, there wasn’t supposed to be room for secrets, not with the night as a looming cover.

And yet, Jinki’s eyes linger on that spot again, and yet –

* * *

– it remains an old scar. Jonghyun sometimes takes walks around the hostel where Jinki used to stay, right when the sun would begin to dip under the horizon. It never got as hot here as it did during the countless summers in Seoul he’d spent growing up and anticipating the future hearts he’d break when writing his lyrics.

He can’t think of summer without being reminded of Jinki now, of the ‘getaway’ car they’d once rented just to experience how that word sounded outside of the movies, in the songs that played over the radio as they drove past green hills and the occasional scattering of lost sheep.

“You’d think they wouldn’t keep forgetting their way back home,” Jonghyun had muttered, taking in the sight of the back of Jinki’s head as the latter gazed out the window at a particularly aimless woolly mass. “Sheep always seem exceptionally shameless in how they roam around in these parts. Goats too.”

“They aren’t exactly known for their intelligence.” The way Jinki said it, as fondly as if he were referring to a distant second cousin, was amusing enough for Jonghyun to catch himself smiling in the rearview mirror. “But then again, the dumber the animal, the better the meat.”

He’d turned to Jonghyun then, chuckling. “My parents are butchers. I’d know.”

“If you’re so handy with animal organs, you should have been the one cooking for me all this time.” Jonghyun had carefully arranged his features into a pout. The moment Jinki would break out that grin of his, something – someone – would give, and Jonghyun had already given more than he’d realized at the beginning.

It was supposed to be a day trip, one that had begun at six in the morning and stretched on to the same number in the evening. They’d brought along a picnic lunch, which they’d taken on a hillock a few miles away from a large farmhouse with a white fence surrounding it; Jinki had found this an amusing sight, if only for reminding him of the picture books he used to practice reading when his mother took him to the library as a preschooler. A similar memory had resurfaced in Jonghyun’s mind, which perturbed him.

During the drive home, Jonghyun had tried to keep the future beyond the encroaching night in the forefront of his thoughts. After being up so early, he figured he’d earned the right to sleep in tomorrow morning, with no distractions, in his own bed.

And then, when the rental car was stopped in front of Jinki’s drear red-bricked hostel, Jinki had looked at him and Jonghyun found himself already missing him.

“Do you want to come upstairs? I can make coffee.”

Jonghyun had shook his head; not for all the coffee, drugs or candy, he’d joked and it must have been funny because Jinki had smiled back, even if he wasn’t laughing.

With all the time alone that had passed since , Jonghyun still isn’t sure what he’d meant back then.

It was still summer, but the gloomy grey clouds overhead sent him back to the days when the January gloom had hung heavy above him. It had been a difficult winter, so much so that he’d hardly felt the spring come and go.

Now with Jinki gone, Jonghyun remembers Sundays differently: as the ray of sunshine filtered through the clouds, not quite enough to chase away the wolves in the dark but enough for Jonghyun to acknowledge that they wouldn’t harm him more than he’d let them already. On certain nights, he might have even considered dancing with them, with his hands flying free from their gnashing teeth and his own laughter drowning out the silence.

As he circles around the same corner for the third time, he regrets not taking Jinki in the backseat on that evening. No physical need nor heat propelling him, just to hold Jinki with enough warmth that might have made up for whatever Jonghyun lacked in words. He might have even taken the rental car back to his place, serenading Jinki with whatever his hands and lips could muster from the embers that drove his heart into a frenzy whenever the darkness overtook them.

The irony of choking on his own words, the very same he’d laid out to Jinki in the privacy of pen and paper in a letter he’d lost the nerve to send, isn’t lost on Jonghyun. There’s only so much a Skype call or Kakao message could say.

He misses Jinki, misses the good times and the times which could have been better. He misses him; the dent on the couch where he used to sit, the extra plate and spoon in Jonghyun’s kitchen sink, the memory of a flash of a smile so radiant in a place as mundane as the Tube which Jonghyun can only blame on his own wishful thinking.

There’s a line he’s written down on a notepad that isn’t devoted to his novel – _‘his heart has broken somewhere on the route between then and now, at the intersection between here and there’_ – and he still doesn’t know where it fits into any of his work.

And then on a morning when the sky through his window is a dazzling blue, Jonghyun realizes that he’s far from broken; he’s just another work-in-progress, as is the case with anyone he’s ever met and will be with everyone he’s yet to meet. After two pints of lager, it’s a sobering thought, enough to compel him to drag his phone off his bedside table and swipe through the final edits of the pictures Jinki had sent him.

Some in monochrome, some in sepia, some in washed-out pastels, all of them featuring the pervasive element of light. These were just a few of the hundred Jinki and his editor would select for the book they were working on, and although Jonghyun can clearly see he’s the only subject, he does wonder if –

* * *

– there’s another name that sometimes flits around in Jinki’s head. On a warm evening in Seoul, it doesn’t weigh as much on mind. Back in London, on the very first night he’d spent with Jonghyun, it had felt like he’d shared a bed with two instead of the one warm body that lay asleep next to him. With his eyes closed, Jinki had confronted that first dear name which ghosted a path through the present he was trying to reconstruct.

It’s the same name that beckons to him now, in letters chalked on the black signboard propped up by the pub entrance. It’s the second one listed below the main act:

_Lee Taemin_

Taemin-ah had done well with securing a six-song set for himself at this humble, yet bustling venue. He’d sent a picture of the setlist to Jinki earlier in the day and Jinki had found himself breathing a sigh of relief at not having to anticipate roughly forty minutes of sad love songs. Taemin’s new stuff was distinctly more on the upbeat side, even if the releases had come out over the tail-end of summer, when the more melancholic autumnal indie tunes were hitting the airwaves.

Jinki has to admit he can’t wait to hear his voice. He’d heard very little from Taemin during the months he’d been traveling; there were no hard feelings left over from the last time they’d really talked.

Almost as soon as he enters the pub, a feeling of déjà vu settles around him; he feels it land softly on his shoulders when he lets out a breath. It’s that loveless feeling of loneliness again, a familiar phantom whose shape he’d come to memorize. He picks up his phone to distract himself and begins to swipe through old messages.

The notifications from his telecom provider are immediately deleted. A few seconds later, he finds himself scrolling through Jonghyun’s old messages; _‘XOXO’_ seemed to have been a popular sign-off. Whether it’s just a habit that had carried over from old relationships or a hint at whatever it was that had been exclusive to them is something that Jinki doesn’t want to dwell too much on. His two separate pasts seem to be catching up and if they somehow aligned, it would be a definite sign. He pictures a green light, _‘time to move on’_.

The opening guitar strums from the first performers starts just in time; Jinki’s head and hands were inexplicably attracted to puzzles, but his heart tended to its own whims. Music always had a way of satisfying all of his mental capacities, while making him yearn for more.

Sometimes, the yearning never seemed to stop. It just led him in new directions, just like it had during that evening in London, from the bridge to the narrow bed in Jonghyun’s flat.

Jinki fixes his eyes on the guitarist’s hands on-stage and watches as, except for where he sees the thumb and index fingertips tighten on the pick, they seem to fly over the strings. Jinki had never learnt to play, but he thinks he can appreciate the technique. Even if it’s only Jonghyun’s that he’s familiar with.

Perhaps, even more than just familiar –

He closes his eyes and allows the rest of the pub to float on by. In-between sips of his drink – and the ripples of another night, another day, not too long ago but it sometimes feels like another world off altogether – Jinki allows the memories to ebb and flow until the only thing that finally pulls him back into the present is an entirely different voice.

Taemin’s.

Jinki’s eyes open and search for him, recalling all too well that he once would have stayed an entire night in a place like this if only for the chance to walk Lee Taemin home to his dorm, half an hour in the opposite direction of Jinki’s own apartment.

Taemin still glows in the way that only he does. Once the beat kicks in, his limbs seem to pulse with each shift the lyrics take, from plain and coy to the kind of sultriness that could start a fire in the right light. When the bass drops, the crooning takes a step above the audience’s chants and then the song descends, the chorus scattered over the multitude of voices packed in the room. Taemin doesn’t so much as dance as… ‘speak’, Jinki grasps about for the right word, changing his mind every second… no, ‘soar’… no, ‘surrender’ himself to the music, to the moment.

And yet, at the end, backstage where Taemin looks up at him with nothing but fondness for an old friend, Jinki feels emptier still. He’d loved everything about Taemin’s performance – and long ago, had once loved everything about him – and it all feels like an echo now, compared to the other voice that still fills his head.

“Did you have a good time?” Taemin asks, eyes twinkling, and Jinki can’t bring himself to bite back his smile, even if it’s a shadow of what it could have been.

“I did.” He says and at least he’s not lying, not in the way that Taemin would suspect him of. But the weight in his chest doesn’t lift.

“I miss your piano though,” He tries again, just to cover up the emptiness in his words with more sound. “Do you still play?”

Taemin cocks his head to the side and seems to contemplate what a sorry sight his hyung makes for.

“Yeah, I still play.”

“That’s good…”

“D’you wanna come over?” Taemin’s voice is light and low. “I know how to make hot chocolate without watching a Youtube video now. You can listen to me play and I’ll listen if you wanna talk about him.”

Jinki’s heart fractures a little, but he’s grateful nonetheless.

“How’d you know?”

Taemin’s smile extends into his cheeks, a secretive laugh thinly disguised. “I’m on SNS now. And you’re still no good at cropping your pics.”

The weight inside Jinki lifts and he allows himself to –

* * *

– let nothing else hurt, even if for a while. There are ten minutes left for the train to leave; Paris is nearly two and a half hours away. Jonghyun has his earphones on, classic Shinhwa streaming on his playlist. Instead of the lyrics to ‘Perfect Man’, he focuses on the guitars in the intro and the bass slide in-between certain verses. It’s been years since he’s listened to mainstream Korean stuff like this. It’s infectious enough to stir up something inside him, which has his left foot tapping along with the chorus.

Inevitably, it’s Jinki’s face that begins to appear past the flashes of nostalgia, even though Jonghyun’s on his way to contend with an entirely different part of his past that had recently beckoned to him with an out-of-the-blue text.

As far as exes go, he reckons that there hadn’t been much competition for what he’d had with Kibum, although Jinki just might prove to be the exception. And in his imagination – secretly – Jonghyun had assumed that he’d long since left an impression on Kibum; an illusion that came crashing down with the arrival of those two words on his mobile screen:

_‘i’m engaged’_

And the smiley emoji with its tongue sticking out. Jonghyun can’t forget that.

The proposal had apparently come about in Paris after three bottles of wine and an impromptu midnight picnic. Kibum hadn’t sounded so sure about the exact timing. He and Minho had been _really_ – the word strung out and loosened around the delighted haze of alcohol – sloshed.

If there’s one thing Jonghyun knows for sure at this point, it’s that he’s not upset. Not in the slightest. Instead, his body feels like a cage for the adrenalin that’s been pumping through him since he’d made that call at three in morning and booked that return ticket on the Eurostar for the same day. Before ‘Perfect Man’ ends, he sets it on replay while he rifles through the brochure which had been stored in the sleeve of the seat in front of his. His gaze lands on a picture of a familiar glass pyramid bathed a warm amber in the light of the setting afternoon sun.

Part of him wonders if he could write a song about this.

_“So what now?”_ He’d asked Kibum, not expecting a serious answer. _“You were supposed to be away for a month, right?”_

_“Yeah… you think we could fit in a wedding and honeymoon?”_

Another part of Jonghyun wonders if he should commit this to memory, to verse, to anything that was worth keeping locked away under a pile of sheets on his desk.

He checks his watch and notes that it’s nine in the morning, approximately six hours since Kibum had not so much rushed as practically dived into almost-matrimony. But then again, Minho had been the one doing the proposing. And perhaps the wine in France was just that much more potent.

Jonghyun doesn’t dread seeing either of them, far from it. He supposes he could call himself… ‘glad’. ‘Delighted’ even.

He dozes off on the train and dreams he’s back out in the sun, walking alongside Jinki, and he always knows it’s Jinki, even if he can’t see much beyond the glare of the light. It’s just something that keeps happening, whether or not he intends to dwell on it.

In the dream, he can’t see Jinki’s smile, but it’s there. It just is.

By the time he rouses himself awake, the train is pulling into the station, where a quick run-through French immigration awaits, as do Kibum and Minho outside.

Kibum’s laugh cracks like a whip when it’s just the three of them feasting on omelets and sipping black coffee from bowl-like cups in a café twenty minutes north-east from the Eiffel tower. As the cackles come to an end, trailing off after Minho’s sentences and ascending up into the clear robin’s egg blue sky that hangs over them, the sense of déjà vu seeps in.

It can’t be such a bad thing to find amusement in these unusual places, Jonghyun surmises. An ex’s smile doesn’t feel so out of sorts, now that he lets it fly through the moment, very much like the prospect of a hangover that will eventually claim the insides of Kibum and Minho’s skulls.

After the late breakfast, they wander along Paris’s cobblestone side-roads; or rather, the newly engaged lovers lazily waltz along, side-stepping penny-sized potholes and shadows cast by the awnings attached to small restaurants and patisseries. Jonghyun makes sure that he doesn’t lag too far behind them, just enough to watch how their combined strides tessellate in the way that only a pair achieves.

The Seine isn’t too far off, the waters basking in their own sense of calm. Jonghyun catches a glimpse of it and though he remembers he can’t swim, he thinks he wouldn’t mind drifting down along that tepid grey ribbon of water, until he reached the ocean. And then how many hours to Seoul at a pace that wasn’t his to control or down a path that was his to navigate?

“Jjong?” Kibum calls out from farther ahead. “Jjong? Jamong?”

He hears Minho repeating his nicknames after Kibum, his voice a warm, baritone echo. Jonghyun has no choice but to smile back, even as he’s being steadily left behind. He wants his mind to loosen its hold on Jinki’s voice – which had once echoed barely a few feet behind him – even if his heart still clings to that memory.

“Coming!” He replies, hurrying to catch up.

As to lust, as to love, he would save them for sorting out under the cover of night, when he nestled in the futon set up in Kibum’s apartment living-room. They could both be drawn out in a type of chemical reaction, except in figures and shapes that were different from the patterns he was used to. Give a day, take a night, bending formulae out of place to fit –

* * *

– inside the white noise that fills Jinki’s head when he tries to concentrate. He’d risen with the dawn to complete this one thing, which was to finalize the number of photos to be included in the exhibition. Instead, he’s this close to dozing off in his desk-chair, blood warmed by the morning sun that streams into his living-room.

He and his editor had settled for the monochrome sets. “It allows for that certain slant of light to stand out in each frame,” Hyungsoo had explained so succinctly. “Don’t you think?”

Jinki had stared at the series of images caught in the time-lapse of Jonghyun walking into the shadow of the old factory, the one streak of light looking like it followed him in slow motion. And he’d agreed with Hyungsoo.

As to the number, Jinki eventually decides on 38. It sounds nice and solid; 50 would have been an excess and 25 a scarcity. But if there’s anything he doesn’t like about the monochrome, it’s how the light bleaches to a uniform white starkness. From the spectrum of vibrant golds and silvery yellows, to one plain shade of white.

“I know it’s not the easiest thing to edit with, but once you get the balance right with the shades, it’s…” The long strands of Hyungsoo’s fringe had fluttered above the skin of his forehead as he pursed his lips and let out a silent whistle. “It’d be a masterpiece. Your best yet.”

Quite the prospect to be fulfilled and not one which Jinki would take lightly. He’d told Hyungsoo to take himself home, so that he could think.

For a while, it works. Jinki’s mind has this way of sealing itself off from his surroundings, allowing him to wholly concentrate on whatever it was that needed to be accomplished. Except that somehow, it can’t let go of something.

_“Take it lightly.”_ Jonghyun had murmured in Korean so quietly that Jinki almost hadn’t caught it, even with the space between them reduced to a sliver of skin as they’d lain in Jonghyun’s bed. And then he’d repeated it in English: _“Take. It. Lightly.”_

The working title – and soon to be finalized name, embossed on the book cover – of Jinki’s project was ‘The Story of Light’.

He’d looked at Jonghyun, squinting through the dimness, and muttered, _“Didn’t know you liked puns.”_

_“I like wordplay.”_

Jinki had given him that; Jonghyun was a songwriter after all. 

_“Are you trying to tell me something?”_ Jinki had pressed on, tracing concentric circles over Jonghyun’s hip, encroaching closer to his belly, under the navel, across the line of fine hair beneath it. It felt like a harmless enough question, nothing that would warrant an ugly ending.

_“Just take it lightly.”_ Jonghyun had sighed into his mouth, turning on his side so as to fully take Jinki by the lips again. It took less than a few minutes before Jinki was hard again, relishing the sweet wet heat of Jonghyun around him and on his tongue.

But right now, the only thing that feels light about Jinki is the sigh he allows to escape. Despite Jonghyun’s warning, he misses him already. Earlier that morning, Jinki had been fiddling around with the rice cooker, imagining how many of Jonghyun’s favorite side-dishes he could scrape together from the leftovers in his pantry. Last night, he’d stopped at a storefront which advertised 30% off amps for guitars.

His phone screen lights up with what seems to be a timely distraction.

Instead of Hyungsoo’s profile pic or either of his parents’, it’s a black circle, the same one Jonghyun had uploaded after placing his thumb over the camera shutter of his phone. After Jinki swipes, a picture of an unfamiliar city engulfs the entire screen.

_‘not bad’_ , he texts back. _‘where r u’_

_‘guess :P’_

_‘tokyo’_

_‘no’_

_‘nyc’_

_‘no’_

_‘mars’_

_‘:P’_

Jinki imagines Jonghyun’s tongue sticking out as he taps out his responses, coloring in the light shade of pink on his lips from memory. Of course, Jonghyun’s surroundings would be speckled with light too, regardless of whether or not he was aware of it. Wherever he was, Jinki wishes he was there too; he would’ve loved to see if he was right.

Jonghyun texts back after six seconds: _‘paris’_

It’s soon followed by _‘on top of eiffel tower’_

Jinki can’t help the smile that falls loose on his face. The way Jonghyun speaks of famous landmarks reminds him of elderly locals who’d grown so used to their surroundings that very little about them left them awed. On the other hand, there was a sort of reverence that crept into Jonghyun’s voice whenever he mentioned certain places like ‘my grandmother’s house’ or ‘the place where my mum grew up’ or ‘your side of the bed’. It was such a curious thing which had stuck with Jinki, even after all this time.

Jonghyun continues texting: _‘it might look prettier at night, i guess’_

_‘you guess?’_

_‘what’_

_‘nothing’_

Jinki considers for a moment, but then just taps the send icon on an impulse after adding: _‘ur funny’_

To drive the point home, he sends a _‘:P’_ immediately afterwards.

There’s radio silence from Jonghyun. A few minutes pass and Jinki figures that that’s it. Until the selca appears.

Jinki has no idea what time it might be in Paris right now, so he’s not quite sure how old the selca is or if Jonghyun’s just teasing him on the spur of the moment. In it, Jonghyun’s skin is aglow, exactly the way he remembers from the mornings when the sun would actually come up in London. It might’ve been from another such morning in Paris or an afternoon instead. Paris isn’t new to Jinki, so there should be no mistaking the time of day.

_‘u look’_ , he begins, then falters.

There’s not really a word that sums up everything Jonghyun is. Goodness knows he’s tried and failed, even when encouraged by Taemin a few nights ago.

Jinki steadies his head nonetheless and types –

* * *

_‘u look lovely’_

It swells and crashes inside Jonghyun’s chest. He’s on the way back from Paris, on the train to London, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the message. It’s only part and parcel of the curse of caring too much, he tells himself. The symptoms will pass when they have to, though by this stage, he wonders if that day will ever come.

Jinki was far too sweet and sentimental, too like the person Jonghyun had been in Seoul. This was, after all, why he’d made a conscious effort to go after lovers who were the exact opposite; like Kibum, back then. And when things ended, they ended well and clean, without the burden of any regrets.

This thing with Jinki was different and familiar. Before Jonghyun could get a grip on himself, his heart was soaring, high above the sea and land, way above his reach.

Maybe he shouldn’t have sent the selca after all; it had been an impulse, propelled by the slight push of loneliness that was settling in beside him underneath the futon in Kibum’s living-room while the lovebirds slept soundly in the bedroom. It hadn’t been a good idea.

_But_ , and this was the thought that bothered Jonghyun still, _had it been a bad one?_

He’d normally save putting his feelings into words for his own projects, but there’s no way to avoid this. He misses Jinki, had been missing him since the day he’d left. Jonghyun had allowed this void to fall over him, like he’d done with every other heartache that had afflicted him in the past, but there was no changing the fact that this _thing_ had yet to leave of its own accord.

His gaze lands on his last response to Jinki: _‘my bad, thank u’_

_That_ had been a bad move. It troubles him so much that the first thing he does when he reaches his flat is to tap on the green ‘call’ icon next to Jinki’s name in his contacts and wait to connect while nervously chewing a fingernail. After three rings, the call goes to voice-mail.

Jonghyun hangs up.

Two minutes and fifteen seconds later, he tries again and as soon as Jinki’s calm pre-recorded voice instructing him to leave a message after the ‘beep’ stops, he tumbles right in:

“Hey. This is weird, I know. But I just… I’m sorry for that last message. I didn’t mean to tease. I’m not teasing. I… thanks. Thank you. For calling me that. I don’t think anyone’s ever called me… you know. Yeah.

“I’m sorry again. Just… don’t let it bother you too much. I… I’m glad that you think of me that way. Thank you.”

Jonghyun hangs up and sinks back onto his bed. He feels empty now, but not the least bit lighter. There’s too much scattered in his mind to make sense or to refocus on by working on his novel. His guitar lies in the same corner he’d abandoned it in for weeks. 

If he had a mood ring right now, just like the one that used to be affixed to his sister’s finger way back when they were growing up, what color would meet his stare? Something different from the varying shades of ‘hungry’ or ‘bored’ those trinkets usually landed on, no doubt. When all else failed, he would’ve called or texted his sister for advice, except…

This, this _thing_ that weighs on him, rooting itself in his daily routine, feels like something just for him alone. And Jinki.

He remembers the very first time he’d set eyes on him and decides to begin there. With that resolve in mind, Jonghyun gets off his bed, grabs the hat he’d flung on his couch when he’d returned, and heads out to the bridge. There’s a fire burning in his heart, one that he recognizes from the many songs he’d learnt and performed.

He used to go about singing out loud in his house and childhood neighborhood from the time he’d first discovered music. However as much as that child still lived on in him, he’d also had to discover the thin lines that overruled propriety. For now, the song stays in his head while he hums a tune he’s come up with on the spot. The words can wait until he finds his way.

It takes almost an hour to get back to the start. Except for a few passersby, the bridge is empty so Jonghyun walks up to the exact place Jinki had once stood at.

The moment he’d given Jinki his name, that had been the point of unraveling. That was what falling in love really amounted to: an unraveling, a deconstruction, someone taking a scalpel to your insides the same way as a finger and thumb took to plucking the petals off a flower. Jonghyun hasn’t brought a notebook or even his phone to record any of this; it’s okay as it is, just a stream of thoughts that he registers and lets free into the surrounding sky above him and the water of the Thames below.

If he dares to close his eyes, he knows it’ll be nothing and everything he feels about everything that had followed that fateful evening. So he keeps them open, along with his mind, allowing every thought and dream to run through him while he waits. He doesn’t know for how long or for what, or if his heart will ever return to its cage.

He imagines that he’ll stay like this for a while. If not until the sun comes up, at least until he catches sight of the moon. And then, it’ll be back to the flat, now just a flat given that that home was where the heart was, and he’ll praise and curse Lee Jinki’s name in equal measure over lines of his lyric sheets.

Maybe he’ll try singing it too. Savor the sound and feel of it his mouth, taste the light in the shadow.

And then –

* * *

– Jinki reaches out for his phone, then stops himself.

The motion is repeated at roughly half hour intervals, always withdrawn in time with the purpose of focusing on the more important task at hand. Over the course of a day, time passes quickly without distractions. Now that the photos have been finalized, there are other things to occupy his mind, like the dedication on the front flyleaf of the book, what color and material to select for the cover, the placement of the title and his name on it, and various other things his mind never would have settled on its own.

It's seven in the evening before he can get any time to himself, just for his eyes to settle on his bedroom ceiling, for his mind to bore through the layers of cement above him to the stars and the moon. He should have invested in a skylight when he had the chance.

Of late, the trouble with Jinki’s mind has been its propensity to get itself caught on minutiae which would have otherwise flown under his radar for good reason. Just last night, his thoughts had been buzzing with an image he’d missed out on capturing on his camera: the profile of the slope of Jonghyun’s nose of all things, just the way it sat on his face. Any excuse to head back to London minus the airfare cost, if Jinki wasn’t mistaken.

And maybe he should. He could, once the book launch and exhibition were over and done with.

And then what?

He pictures walking up to Jonghyun’s flat again and after the door would open, dropping a casual ‘How you been?’ as if it hasn’t already been three months. Lightness, that was what they’d both been down for when it had begun, right? Why did it feel like anything but?

Jinki contemplates the eggshell white color of the ceiling, trying to figure out if it’s just his eyes or the absence of light in the room. The last time he recalls doing such a thing was during the year he’d completed his Masters after a break-up. And that had led to a 5 AM ‘freak-out’ with a group of friends at the nearest 7-11, loading up on as much alcohol that could fill the plastic carrier baskets, drinking as much as he could tolerate, and then the apocalyptic hangover the morning after.

He could of course repeat history’s mistakes and have only a headache to nurse by tomorrow, except technically, there’d never been a break-up this time. Just a parting of ways, as Jonghyun had tried to put it that one night, when Jinki’s head, heavy with sleep and the after-effects of too much malt beer, had made its way to briefly rest on his back, just between the shoulder-blades. Jonghyun was shorter than him, so Jinki had had to hunch a bit. If they’d made it to bed, it would have been so easy to spoon like this.

And they had. Jinki ponders whether this memory is enough to warrant some sort of commiseration in the present.

Sleep feels like a millions miles away at this point, but the nearest 7-11 is a three minutes’ walk to the left of his apartment. At least, that’s where Jinki sets out for at first. When he crosses the side-street and catches his reflection in the mini-mart’s spotless glass window, he keeps walking. It’s July and every degree of the temperature outdoors feels like it. He’s already sweating underneath his clothes; which, after a day spent in the air-conditioned chill of various offices, is something of an odd relief.

The exercise might also help with staving off some of the more painful cravings. The glimpse of Jonghyun’s collarbones in the selca sets him off, his pace quickening. Shops and people pass him by; there’s a new big wheel or something in the north-east part of town and that’s what’s driving most of the foot traffic tonight. Seoul, like most cities (and people), is prettier at night.

But that’s just an echo of Jonghyun again, clear as a bell in his head. Jinki pushes on ahead, against the flow of bodies looking for a distraction from their humdrum lives while he does in the same in the opposite direction. If he moved any faster, he’d be thirsty and then it really would be time for a drink. He’ll take a break then and allow himself a glimpse at his phone. He’d been doing all right without it so far.

Twenty minutes down the line of buildings and the crowd thins out. He’s walked into a quieter area which circumvents a neighborhood park. When he’d usually drive past this place in the mornings, it would be teeming with senior citizens following their prescribed morning exercise routines. Now, save for the occasional solo runner, it’s blessedly empty. Jinki decides to pause here.

The nearest tree is an oak. It’s too dark to see them, but Jinki knows there are acorns growing. It’s still too early for them to fall, so there’s no chance of feeling that uncomfortable crunch beneath his sandals. He walks over and takes a seat on the curved bench placed underneath.

There’s nothing but the sound of rustling and his own breath. Inevitably, the day by the English riverside comes to mind, but with the sudden peal of Jonghyun’s laughter intertwined. A low, deep chuckle, Jinki remembers perfectly, sweet as malt beer.

He doesn’t walk away from it anymore, but welcomes the distraction. Maybe he’ll get used to it in time, until the memories ferment and turn sweet as they grow and connect to the rest of his past. And then…

And then?

He shifts and feels the weight of the phone in his pocket; he decides to give in completely and slides it out, thumbing through his messages until he finds an unread voice message.

Attached to Jonghyun’s name.

Jinki finds himself letting out a breath. He hits ‘play’ on it and then –

* * *

– Jonghyun doesn’t have to wait any longer.

As soon as he returns to the flat, there are three missed calls from Jinki displayed on his phone screen.

Jonghyun immediately calls back and when Jinki answers, he places him on speaker so that his voice can fill the room.

“I guess you really do miss me, huh?” Jinki asks, a hint of a smile coloring his words, full of warmth.

Despite having resigned himself to the life of a free spirit years ago, Jonghyun often feels the betraying urges to root himself; find some soil, settle in the sun, wait for the love, peace and understanding he’d sought to come raining down on him as he settled. He imagines it would feel safe, just as much as he’d felt when cradled in Jinki’s arms on nights when the rain was torrential.

Just like how he feels now.

“Yes,” is all he can say. The rest of what he wants to say is already choked up in his throat, which never happens when he’s singing or writing.

“You didn’t even sign off with a ‘mwah’ or something.”

“Why ‘mwah’?”

“You know, like the ‘XOXO’ you sometimes use when we’re texting. In spoken form.”

“Oh,” This loss of control over his speech is something Jonghyun thinks he needs to get used to. “You noticed?”

“…Yeah.”

This last word of Jinki is breathless, like he’d just exhaled it. From this distance, Jonghyun can’t tell if it’s a sigh. He wonders if he can make up for it somehow

“I did miss you. I do. So much.”

Jinki’s reply is so effortless it nearly knocks the wind out of Jonghyun. “I miss you too.”

Simple as that.

Jonghyun laughs. He can’t help it; he’s been such a fool.

“I missed your laugh too.”

“I…” The warmth is overwhelming, so much so that Jonghyun feels light-headed. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“We can just stay like this. You know I’m here and I know that you’re out there. That should be enough.”

But it isn’t. Jonghyun knows that and takes a breath.

He begins to speak. He tells Jinki he’s supposed to be working on a contemporary novel about love and relationships, but had been side-tracked by a new plot that had formed in his mind. This one was a mystery, one where the narrator has to track down what he’s lost to the deepest dregs of the city he’s called home for so many years. Even if the end of town seems like the corner of the universe, with how far he’s had to go.

He tells Jinki of how swiftly the words had flowed; how strange it had seemed. After countless sleepless nights spent puzzling over the intricacies of love and relationships, ricocheting thoughts into plot-lines that refused to be wrapped up, he’s found some sort of solace in a mystery with no apparent end.

“But isn’t that what love is, really?”

There, Jonghyun had let it out. There was the sound of his heart, not fluttering high and errant above him, but beating itself to a pulp inside his chest, its lifeblood echoing in its ears like a bass.

“I guess that’s the best part of it.” Jinki replies, sounding so sure of himself. “That you can’t see the end? Not just yet, at least. Could that be right?”

It could be.

Jonghyun knows for sure that Jinki is the one. Not in capitals like the words in a romance novel; ‘the one’ he thinks of when his thoughts have no place to land on, ‘the one’ he likes the best when he imagines all his former lovers scattered over the globe, ‘the one’ whose name lights up his heart with a simple look, no matter from how far.

It’s as small and delicate as it seems, but no less magnetic.

“So… how’s your book going?” Jonghyun feels awkward saying this, knowing that the progress has been there, right under his nose and his own phone screen. “Have they come up with a release date?”

“Next week.”

There’s a kick inside Jonghyun’s rib-cage, one he recognizes as excitement. “That’s great. I’ll order a copy.”

“I’d deliver one to you in person.” Jinki’s trying to say this seriously, but the giggle at the end ruins it. “I’m gonna be so busy. I’m already in need of a vacation from all the traveling I’ve done for this book.”

“It was worth it though.”

“Yes, it was. You definitely were.”

There’s another kick deeper inside Jonghyun’s chest, one that aches so sweetly he could cry.

“Jinki?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re lovely too. That’s what I should have said.”

“Ah…”

The silence that follows feels lighter than air, just like one of the mornings after, when Jinki had woken up next to him. The warmth in the air is his hands on Jonghyun’s skin, the kiss on Jonghyun’s cheek, the heat lining the empty space on his side of the bed that lingered long after he left. He realizes that there’s a different sense of peace that reigns with the silence shared with someone loved.

“It’s true. I mean it.” He goes on. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before you left. You made me love the light. There couldn’t be a better name for your book.”

There’s more silence before Jinki seems to swallow and then says, “Thank you. For everything.”

The call comes to an end with a round of softly spoken ‘byes’ and ‘take cares’. After that, Jonghyun’s mind and heart are alight with inspiration, the kind that demands action. He heads to his bedroom, pulls out the suitcase collecting dust underneath his bed, unclasps it and begins to shove the first clothes that come into his reach inside it. Next come up the various and sundry range of notebooks and loose sheets of paper containing fragments of his soul, finally put together in one piece for him to behold.

He doesn’t waste much time sleeping, not when there’s the earliest flight to Seoul to book and a taxi to call to come collect him. When the time comes, he stands at the door of the flat and takes a good long look at what had once been the sum of a life lived alone.

And then, there’s nothing else to do except step into the light.

* * *

The first time he catches Jonghyun looking at him from across the gallery, Jinki forgets that Seoul exists for a second.

He forgets that it’s supposed to be a cruel summer, just on the tail-end of heartache.

He just remembers what it felt like to look over the cusp of that fall, right before he’d let go; to love.

The man he adores is gazing into his monochrome reflection enshrined in the frame hung on a corner-wall. If there’s anyone else who notices, Jinki doesn’t care; what he has of Jonghyun is his, and theirs alone, and suspended forever between the path he takes to reach him, past a continent, a reliable mobile connection and the few strides Jinki takes to get there.

“Why am I ‘The Archer’?” Jonghyun murmurs as soon as Jinki is within earshot.

_Because you got me through the heart_ , Jinki wants to say, but he’s close enough to watch the answer dawn into realization in Jonghyun’s eyes, reflected in the glass that separates him from his portrait.

“I think you already know. By now.”

It’s a wonder to behold the spectrum of expressions that flicker across Jonghyun’s face when he looks at him, to hear that breathless laugh that’s low enough to be swallowed by the hum of conversations that carry on without them, that smile that would fit so perfectly when pressed into Jinki’s own lips. It’s heartbreak in reverse, the bits of him that missed Jonghyun reaching out and reattaching to the parts his hands had missed.

But it’s only by the hand that Jinki can take him now. Just for now.

“Hang around for a while longer, until I get everything wrapped up here.” He whispers into Jonghyun’s ear. “My place is a few streets away.”

Jonghyun inclines his head in the smallest of nods; Jinki lets him go, watches him drift amongst the small crowd of attendees. The light has a way with Jonghyun, the way it wouldn’t have with a thousand stars or streetlamps encircling any city in the world. It must be apparent to anyone else, it had to; Taemin even pulls Jinki aside to ask him if that was his ‘London Boy’ that had suddenly emerged from the night.

Maybe – soon enough – they’d get used to hearing that name fall from Jinki’s lips like his own breaths: _Kim Jonghyun. Jonghyun. My Jonghyun._

That last one sounded better already.

The exhibition draws into its last hour; Jinki gives a final speech punctuated by a bad pun at the end which stills elicits enough of a giggle from his closest friends. It makes the last toast go down better and when he spies Jonghyun’s smile over the rim of his glass, the champagne tastes sweeter and leaves him giddy.

It doesn’t get any more calm when the gallery attendants begin closing the place down for the night and Jonghyun clings to his arm when they begin the short walk back to Jinki’s place. They don’t talk for the entire way.

As soon as he has one foot through the doorway to Jinki’s apartment, Jonghyun knows it feels strange and familiar at the same time. It’s far too dark to make out anything except the oblique shapes and shadows of furniture in the foyer, then what must be the living-room.

Jonghyun knows how weird it must seem for him to say the first thing that comes into his head: “It’s good to be back.”

But he’s said it now and then there’s the brief gap of silence to contend with. It’s late enough that there just might be a few hours left before daylight.

And then Jinki’s arms are around his waist, gathering him while his lips land softly on Jonghyun’s flushed cheek. The kiss doesn’t even end there, continuing to his own mouth, an echo of Jonghyun’s words in Jinki’s language. And that’s when Jonghyun knows that it’s all been worth it, just to find that answer to the one unspoken question that they’d left off on.

As they move to the bedroom, the last thing on Jonghyun’s mind are the words he’d dedicated to the thread that strung his heart to each corner of Jinki’s wide grin. They uncoil, line by line, with each button he undoes on Jinki’s shirt, each shudder, each relieved sigh that ricochets off the arc of Jinki’s neck when he kisses and suckles its tender skin.

‘ _I love you’_ is as big and all-consuming as it gets, so much so that it can wait until morning as it fills up the night around them. The rest of summer slips over Jonghyun, slick with the sweat building on Jinki’s chest as he presses into Jonghyun, fingers already probing further down as his mouth reclaims marked territory.

Jonghyun knows that he’ll stay this time. Today, and the day after, and the months ahead, this would be him finally trying to hold on instead of leaving his heart to roam aimlessly. When Jinki finally pushes inside, Jonghyun opens up as far as he can, as far as he can reach with his hands clutched onto Jinki’s back while he assures him, _‘yes, yes, yes, yesyesyes…’_

It’s not long before Jinki finds that deep-buried spot that sends white hot ecstasy sparking behind Jonghyun’s eyes when he closes them. The world seems to lift, ringing in his ears as it stops for as long as the bliss lasts.

Minutes later, when Jinki moves off of him to lie beside his spent form, Jonghyun reaches for the first thing he can to keep himself anchored and that’s Jinki’s hand: smaller than his, the palm round and lineless, like it wasn’t made for anything other than to fit into Jonghyun’s.

And then…

Peace.

“How long do we have?” Jinki asks, thumb rubbing over the bony ridges of his knuckles.

_Forever_ , Jonghyun wants to say but that doesn’t feel quite adequate.

“Each day after this one. And each night. You don’t have to count them. There’s no number high enough.”

But going by the lightness of Jinki’s smile, Jonghyun can tell that it’s more than enough. And with that, he nuzzles closer, taking in the scent of home, breathes out and finally lets his heart settle. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
